Starving For Love
by InkAndPens394
Summary: Little mystrade fic bunny my mind threw forth. After a disasterous Christmas with his parents, Mycroft starts to starve himself. Greg is there to help. But why would Mycroft do such a thing? Read and find out. R&R, reveiws are love!


It could never be said that Mycroft Holmes was anything but a particular man. He was and Gregory Lestrade knew it. When he had first moved in with Mycroft, Greg had assumed they had been dating long enough that Mycroft would begrudgingly accept Greg's pell-mell habits. Nothing could have been further from the truth.

"Gregory, what are you _doing_?" Mycroft gasped as Greg looked up from what he was doing.

"What?" Greg was confused. "I'm just putting my clothes away." A more accurate description was balling up clothing and stuffing it where it could be made to fit. But, it had always worked for Greg in the past. But his future was Mycroft, and the British Government was paling at the mere sight of his drawer.

"are you really putting _cotton tee-shirts _next to your _suits_?! Can't you be bothered to fold them? Dear Lord, do you own any non-cotton clothing?" Mycroft looked appalled. Greg looked up at Mycroft with a cheeky grin.

"One at a time, Mycroft. I'm not the genius you and your brother are." Greg balled up a pair of underwear and threw it gently at Mycroft. It bounced off his chest and landed between them. Mycroft danced disdainfully around the fallen article of clothing and pulled Greg to his feet.

"Stop, Greg, I'll have Anthea get someone to finish this." In a rare show of intimate affection, Mycroft captured Greg's lips in a deep kiss. He pulled back after a time and tucked Greg's head under his chin. "Please don't think too harshly of me. I'm really glad you moved in. I'm just a particular man."

"Yeah. Yeah you are." Greg grinned and snuggled even closer to Mycroft.

For months the new living arrangements went smoothly. That is, until Christmas. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes invited Mycroft and Sherlock to celebrate the holiday. Both brothers hesitated to invite their significant others. At first, Greg didn't think much of it- Mycroft didn't like Christmas. However, Sherlock and Mycroft accepted the invitation. In the cab, Mycroft explained the real reason behind his hesitation.

"My parents do not know of my sexuality. My brother and I plan on 'coming out' - to quote teenagers - tonight. However, my parents are highly disapproving of homosexuality. I am sorry to not have given you notice in advance." Greg closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He counted to ten and managed to control his explosive temper.

"And you didn't think to tell me this, why?" Greg opened an eye and glanced over at his boyfriend.

"I wanted you to come." Mycroft looked sheepish. Greg sighed as they pulled up to Mr. and Mrs. Holmes' house.

"You will owe me, Mycroft." The British Government nodded. Another cab arrived and out of it steeped Sherlock and John. Greg smiled and greeted the couple. Mycroft had recently let slip that Sherlock was browsing over some rings. He was happy for them. They had been going out for quite sometime and Greg was of the mind that they deserved happiness. Sherlock looked at Mycroft and the brothers seemed to steel themselves. Mycroft knocked on the door. An elderly couple that very much resembled Sherlock and Mycroft answered the door.

"Sherlock. Mycroft. I see you've brought friends," commented Mrs. Holmes coldly. Sherlock surveyed her.

"Mother." Mycroft matched her tone.

"Um, hello," said John. "I'm John Watson. it is a pleasure to meet you.

"Ignorant," commented Mrs. Holmes. "Food is on the table."

After an incredibly awkward dinner involving little food consumption and many cold stares, Sherlock stood.

"Mother, Father, I want you to see this." Sherlock knelt before John and pulled a ring from his pocket. "John Watson, will you do me the honour of becoming my husband?" John looked absolutely floored. Mrs. Holmes stood up, rage clear in her face.

"You filthy nance! At least your brother turned out right. Greg could almost hear John bristle.

"Of course I will. I love you, Sherlock," John said defiantly.

"And for the record, Mother, Father, Gregory is here as my boyfriend. We've just moved in together in October," Mycroft said proudly. Mr. Holmes laughed.

"Now I know you're lying. You're ugly, obese, and ignorant. Who would want you?" Mycroft's expression fell and inch. Mrs. Holmes rolled her eyes.

"Don't act like it isn't true. Now all of you, get out of our house. You're vile." Sherlock kissed John full on the lips. They kissed passionately for a few seconds and Sherlock let out an exaggerated moan when John took his lower lip between his teeth. When they broke apart Sherlock said, "Good-bye, Mother," and kissed her on the cheek.

The old woman began to scream like a banshee. It only heightened in pitch when when Greg laced his fingers through Mycroft's. The four walked quickly out the door and got a cab together.

"Congratulations!" said Greg excitedly. John smiled and snuggled closer to Sherlock who pressed a kiss into the top of his head.

"Thanks," John said. "Of course I'll see you both at the wedding.

"Of course," said Mycroft quietly. He looked almost mournful. The cab paused and Greg and Mycroft got out.

"Congratulations again!" said Greg before trailing after Mycroft to the house. Immediately Greg kicked off his shoes, cut himself a slice of leftover cake and plopped down in front of the telly. Mycroft followed him much more slowly.

"Want some cake, love?" asked Greg. Mycroft shook his head.

"No, to bed with me, I think." Greg had to agree with Mycroft there; he looked so tired.

"Alright, I'll join you in a bit.:

"In my bed?" Mycroft looked nervous.

"Unless you'd prefer me not to?" Greg asked.

"No! I want you to. Just...making sure." Mycroft seemed nervous. Greg grabbed his hand and kissed it gently.

The next morning Greg woke up a bit late. He expected to smell a breakfast; instead he stumbled into clothing and walked into the kitchen to find Mycroft meticulously slicing an apple.

"Here, take this." Mycroft pressed the apples slices into Greg's hands. "You'll be late." Mycroft kissed his cheek.

"Have you had anything?" Greg asked suspiciously; Mycroft had been known to starve himself.

"No, but I'm fine." Before Greg could argue he was herded out the door and into a cab.

Throughout the next weeks Mycroft only pretended to eat. He was an absolute expert at it, Greg had to admit. Mycroft could easily make the food look eaten. If Greg didn't know better he would think Mycroft actually ate something. But Greg_ did_ know better. Through experience and trail and error (mostly error) Greg had learned that pestering Mycroft to eat during these phases only resulted in him not eating out of spite. Or he would eat some, and stick two fingers down his throat later.

One evening after dinner (which Greg was the only one who ate) he crawled under the silk sheets of Mycroft's bed and quickly fell asleep. An hour later, Greg woke to Mycroft hesitating at the edge of the bed.

"May I?" asked Mycroft nervously.

"Get in." Greg lifted the covers for his boyfriend. Mycroft snuggled as close as he possibly could to Greg. The detective inspector smiled.

"What kept you up?" Greg felt Mycroft's apologetic smile pressed against his chest.

"Just a bit of stomach upset." As if on queue, Mycroft's stomach growled and the British Government whimpered.

_Stomach ache my arse. Try hungry, _thought Greg. Still he began to rub Mycroft's belly; Mycroft groaned.

"You missed your calling," he murmured. Greg lightly kissed his forehead.

"Only for you." Mycroft murmured something in return but Greg had already drifted off.

The next day, Greg decided enough was enough. Mycroft being stubborn and vain was one thing; him suffering was quite another. So Greg took the day off, since he knew Mycroft would be away at several meetings, and prepared to cook. He decided to make a German dish, a roast and noodles in a wine based gravy and a French chocolate cake. These were Mycroft's favorite things and were, of course, painstakingly difficult to cook. Greg considered himself a mediocre chef at best, but he was determined to make it perfect. Near dinner time he finished, and was rather pleased with himself. He dug around for some of Mycroft's favorite wine and set filled plates on the table. When Mycroft got home he arched an eyebrow.

"I cooked for you," said Greg. Mycroft slowly sat down and played with the food until Greg commanded him to eat; then Mycroft ate a bites and stood.

"I have to use the loo." Greg rolled his eyes and stood as well.

"I did_ not_ cook all day just to have you throw it back up." Greg strode over to Mycroft and firmly planted two hands on his shoulders. "If your starving yourself has been about you losing weight, then I can start taking you to the gym with me. But I don't think that's it. So tell me, what's wrong?" And with that, the British Government broke down. He sobbed and Greg pulled him into a warm embrace. Greg rubbed Mycroft's shoulders and back, and simply allowed the tears to soak through his tee-shirt.

"I thought that I was too fat and ugly and that you wouldn't want me anymore," hiccuped Mycroft.

"Does this have anything to do with what your parents said at Christmas?" asked Greg. Mycroft nodded against Greg's shoulder.

"Yes."

"I think it's funny that two idiots like them could have such brilliant children. I think you're perfect, Mycroft. And I would climb the tallest mountain and into a microphone attached to the loudest speaker system I would scream at the top of my lungs my love for you, if that would make you believe that I mean it. Now, will you eat or is my cooking awful?"

"It's lovely." Mycroft smiled and kissed Greg's lips. Greg pulled up another chair and grabbed his own plate. Then, with Greg's arm around his waist, Mycroft began to eat. Greg smiled as he watched his finicky, panicky, and powerful boyfriend. Mycroft Holmes was a particular man and he did not starve for vanity. He starved for love and Gregory Lestrade knew it.

_**There you have it! I am Inky; not Moffat therefore I do not own Sherlock.**_


End file.
